Silver and Silent, Silver and Cold
by LotrNaustenfan
Summary: His world was black and white, things like blood and silver eyes scared him more than the dark mark etched into his skin, but he would learn. And nothing in his life was ever learned the easy way. One shot, Draco story.


Silver and Silent, Silver and Cold

Characters: Draco, and Hermione, though not a Dramione.

Summary: His world was black and white, things like blood and silver eyes scared him more than the dark mark etched into his skin, but he would learn. And nothing in his life was ever learned the easy way. One shot about seeing yourself for the first time.

A/N: This is weird and creepy, please forgive me if you don't like it. This will probably be the only one of its kind. It's very…not me. But it just kind of poured out of me. Tell me what you think. If it's too much, I apologize, I couldn't help myself. I liked it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Draco or Hermione, though I play with them a little bit in this one. JKR is the one who created them and she's the one who continues to dazzle us with them. Trust, I make no money from this. And the title was stolen, partly, from an AFI song.

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WARNING:

A little blood and abuse, lots of mental destruction and overall pretty creepy…you have been warned.

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He was white, everything about him: his hair, skin. He glowed almost, and it suited him. But for one so white, so pure looking, he loved to shroud himself in darkness. He smiled at his long black cloak, black tie, black shirt,

…black smile.

He would lie awake in the darkness sometimes. The common room would be deserted as people made their ways to their dormitories, but he would stay in the dark secret of the Slytherin Common Room. He would hide in the recesses, in the corners. Farthest away from the fire, in the shadows where he could disguise himself as something else. Something not so beautiful and bright. He would pretend he was the darkness and there he would embolden himself to do harm: to others, to himself, to things and places that had nothing to do with him. He would hide his face all the while, accepting the inevitable. He was darkness, he was hatred.

The night was his home.

He would stand in front of the mirror on cold nights, bare chested and freezing, staring into the abyss that was his eyes. He feared his eyes most of all. Something lurked behind them, something scarier than darkness, than dark lords, and evil fathers. Something was there that he had tried to hide in shadow his whole life. He was scared. No, not scared, he was petrified of everything he had been born to be. He cringed at the silver flecks. He cursed at the silver flecks. And…he feared them. Those eyes said "I am not a murderer" but he felt it in his soul, like it was the sheets that covered his naked body at night. He was a murderer. He was a killer. He was a death eater.

He stared at his white hair, white cheeks, and hated them for being so opposite of what he felt. The face he saw was not himself. He was darkness, he was hatred.

But then he'd see his eyes again. The silver painted in almost perfect semblance of fear and distress.

This day was no different. He stared, and when he could restrain no longer a tear ran down his face, his neck, and then his bare chest. He watched it collide with his pajama pants. Like shattered dreams, his single tear, however strong, still died. He stared for a while, before taking his tooth brush out of the cabinet and brushing so hard it made his mouth bleed. He stared at himself a while, watching the blood drip down his pale lips, making them a color he didn't know existed.

His world was black and white, no red ever entered or exited.

That would soon change, he thought, as his dark mark, another black thing engraved in him forever, twisted mercilessly. He would see his share of blood, but for some reason it only moved to excite him.

Then, without warning, without hint, without preparation, a flood of tears escaped his eyes and ran down the length of his body, glistening his face, neck and chest all the while. He watched, only further hurting himself, as the tears glistened even in the low light of the bathroom. He was glowing. Why did he have to glow? He never asked for it. All he wanted was shadows. All he wanted was blackness that could shroud him till death.

He knew he had to get away. He spit the remaining blood from his mouth, and whipped his lips against his bare arm. There the red, that so rarely mixed with his black and white, remained.

He ran. He ran until he could run no longer. The cold of the dark night hitting him full force. He didn't care if it was after hours, he didn't care that he could get caught, he didn't even care that it was winter in the dark castle and he was wearing nothing but sleek green silk pants. He ran…and ran…and ran…

And then…

BANG.

He ran full force into another running figure. She, for it was most certainly a girl, looked up at him with a light blush on her face, and he instantly grimaced and pulled away.

"Granger."

"Malfoy," she said with equal distaste in her voice and on her face, but the blush didn't leave as she looked down at his almost nakedness.

"What the hell are you doing roaming the corridors at night?"

"Same thing you are," she said looking up through lidded and foreboding brown orbs, causing him to grimace even deeper and almost vomit. "To get away," she finished, and he backed away harshly.

"You don't know anything about me, don't presume to understand anything I do," he said calmly, but arrogantly.

"I don't have to presume. I know."

"NO!" he said harshly and then retreated. He rarely showed true emotion to anyone, even hatred and contempt. He reserved that for his sessions in front of the mirror, scrutinizing and killing whatever beast he feared inside his eyes. He continued more calmly, "No, you don't understand. You don't know."

She just stared as he relaxed. He could tell that she was afraid to provoke him. He felt accomplished in that moment, and a warmth passed over him, just as she seemed to notice his lack of clothing.

"You're going to freeze, you know," she said as she began to pull her cloak off. She offered it to him, but the idea disgusted him.

"Never has the Gryffindor crest touched this body, and it never will," he said as he put up a hand and backed away to keep his distance from the cloak. "Save your warmth and kindness for someone who wants it and needs it. I'm not that person."

She frowned and bowed her head. He hated how colorful she was. Her brown hair, tanned skin, shinning eyes, crimson lips, rosy cheeks. He repulsed her to the point of destruction. He imagined his fingers ripping out that curly hair, scratching those perfect lips, pounding away that light blush. He hated all of it. Almost as much as he hated the shinning in his own eyes, the pale blush in his own cheeks, the beautiful wispy hair on his head.

"I didn't realize you bled," she said suddenly, taking him out of his thoughts. He looked at her face and noticed her eyes were on his arm. He looked down and noticed the red stain of blood there.

"Surprise, surprise," he said sarcastically. For a split second she looked hurt, but before he could truly recognize such an emotion, she looked back at him with contempt and hatred that could rival his own.

"You know, I've got you figured out. You aren't so tough. You are afraid of everything, including yourself."

He glared at her, not because she lied or she guessed, that he could deal with. He glared because he knew she was right.

"Nietzsche once said, 'the man who fights too long against dragons becomes a dragon himself.' Think about it."

She started to walk away, wrapping her red cloak tighter around her body almost in spite of the man behind her who studied her frantically.

"How?" he whispered, but she heard him and turned around.

"In your world there is only black and white. But in my world there are all different colors. I think that's what you fear worst of all, is that you could be good and bad at the same time. Right _and_ wrong."

He stared open mouthed, it was as if she had sunk into his skin and read him like a book. Only in this moment he was a book full of words he didn't understand, but somehow the Gryffindor good girl could understand them. Maybe she knew what it was like to fear your own eyes.

"They aren't grey, you know. They are silver. Is that why you hate them? Because they are a real color?"

He stared back for a second. She prodded him with her eyes, and he could take it no longer. He spoke before his thoughts took shape. "I hate them because they are a part of this fake form," he said as he gestured to his face and body, "I hate them because they are a guise for what is underneath."

"What _is_ underneath, then?" she asked without fear. And because not a single fear penetrated her curiosity she didn't even flinch when he strode up to her.

"Blackness, emptiness," he said so close to her she began taking in shallower breaths in fear that they must be rationed. "Inside is your worst nightmare."

They stood for a long moment, staring at each other. Her closeness was somehow erotic, he could feel his body pulsing as he glared down into her equally strong stare. She kept looking in his eyes, prying into his soul, and he tried, without success, to do the same to her.

Then, she opened her mouth and spoke, after what seemed like ages. "I don't believe you."

If his anger had been shut behind a door, this was the moment it broke the lock. He flung his arms at her, grabbing her harshly and thrusting her up against the wall. He held her tightly and painfully, but she didn't flinch.

"What don't you believe, Granger?" he asked darkly.

She just shook her head and looked back into his angry eyes. "You don't hate them for disguising your darkness; you hate them for showing your lightness. You fear that there is still hope for your soul."

He fell apart at her words. He let go of her and crumbled to the ground in shock. His eyes slid closed and he looked within. Even with his eyes closed all he saw was white…everywhere. It was in every recess of his mind, every cavern of his being. He hid in shadows to drown out the light.

His breathing was labored, but his eyes flew open when he felt her presence shrink to him. She was staring teary eyed only inches from his face. Her blush was greater as she brought her warm hands to his freezing, almost numb, shoulders.

"You should go to bed; we have classes in the morning. I don't thing McGonagall would be as forgiving as Snape." He looked up as if he was a lost puppy being brought back to familiarity in that one phrase. He was still human, to spite his constant struggle with humanity.

He awoke in that phrase, and saw himself from all angles in that instant. He was a little boy, sitting on the floor of a dark cold corridor, crouched with his knees under his chin. He was just a scared little boy being touched and scared further by a dark haired little girl. He looked into her eyes, and without warning thrust her against the wall again, this time with his mouth suppressing her instead of his arms. He bit her lip and tasted her blood. She squirmed and whimpered at the pain accompanied with his kiss.

Then, almost instantly, he pulled away. Suddenly, he felt everything again. His skin was so cold it felt like his limbs might fall off, her blood was iron in his mouth, and his body was aching with need. But he was repulsed by her, even as her blood ran down his throat. She looked equally as repulsed.

"Now you know…" she almost whispered, but he caught it and looked questioningly at her. She raised her eyes to his and stated, matter-of-factly, "the world isn't black and white."

Then, she turned and ran away.

He wouldn't realize how right her words were, until a couple weeks later…

When he would be staring down into the face of an old bearded man, begging for salvation.

A/N: This is my first attempt at Draco, I hope I haven't offended or angered anyone. I wrote him how I see him. This is not my first attempt at Hermione, though I have only attempted her from the outside observer. Not that she is too difficult to write, though she might be, but I just haven't been inspired to write anything from her point of view. Who knows, it may happen soon. But as far as her characterization—I have always felt like she understands Draco better than anyone for some reason. She always seems to be the first to tell Harry he's crazy when he tells her that he thinks Draco has done some other bad thing. So…yeah, that's why she is so…seer-ish in this.

If you like this please let me know, I need the boast of encouragement because of how nervous I was about this piece. I've had it done for three days now and I just keep staring at it. I'm afraid it's too much. So, please help me out and give me some feedback.

Kira :)


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